The lights downstairs were all off. The dishes from Mike’s breakfast earlier
in the morning still sat in the sink; the soft sound of water drops echoed in
the silent twilight of the room.

Mike glanced around expectantly, all five of his sense on maximum awareness,
ready to respond. Someone was in his house – he could feel it. Someone had the
audacity to enter his home – his home – and do something – what he didn’t
yet know – but whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

He stepped quietly to the closet in the den and picked up his trusty
baseball bat. If someone wanted to get physical with him, he was going to have
something other than his fists to protect him. He still had seen no sign of
the intruders, but he knew they were there somewhere, and he was going to
introduce them to Big Bertha.

Now armed with the bat, he moved slowly towards the stairs up to the second
floor of the house. The creaking of the carpeted stairs hid the sounds
floating down from upstairs until he made it to the narrow hall at the top of
the stairs.

Once there, the sound was clearly audible. He turned left towards it, bat
held at the ready, and crept towards the bedroom. The perspiration collected
in large beads along his forehead, then ran down into his eyes. He didn’t dare
remove his hands from the bat to wipe them, and instead ignored the burning
sensation and slightly blurred vision the saline sweat produced.

He reached the bedroom, the apparent source of the sound. The door was only
partly open, and he sidled alongside the doorway, back pressed against the
wall. He peered inside the crack of the door, but nothing was visible.

The sounds were growing louder. Soft, hushed breathing and occasional low
moans had turned into groans and raspy, labored breaths, coming at a much
greater frequency than before. Mike took a deep breath, gripped the handle of
the bat till his knuckles turned white, turned and stormed into the bedroom,
yelling at top of his lungs.

Chapter 12: Identification

“Wow, what a dump,” Cobb said as he stepped into the small one bedroom
apartment. “Not much of a decorator, is he?” The apartment was bare except for
a small unmade bed in the corner. The floor was bare cement, the normally
white walls a light brown from months of city soot and grime.

“Well, I guess you get what you pay for,” Ames commented as he moved deeper
into the interior of the apartment. “Doesn’t look like there’s a whole lot
here. The landlord did say the kid had been subletting the place, and that the
other two tenants left about a month ago.”

“Two people lived here?”

“Well, not everyone has the benefits of a detective’s salary, Cobb,” Ames
smiled wryly. Cobb shook his head in response. “Hard to believe, that’s all.”

He detectives glanced around again.

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s anything here. Maybe the kid was just coming
back today. He did have those tickets in his backpack.”

“All right. What next?”

Cobb sat down on the bed, looking around the room in thought. “They said the
other guy was most likely homeless, right?” Ames nodded. “Not too unusual in
this part of town. I think there’s a shelter down on Sullivan. Maybe somebody
there knows the guy.”

“You read my mind. Let’s go.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood
up, following Ames out of the ground floor apartment and back to their car.
“You drive,” he said, throwing Ames the keys.

Ames was surprised. “Say what? You never let me drive? What’s the deal?”

“I just want to look around a bit. You drive.”

Ames didn’t argue. Cobb was reticent as he started up the engine and pulled
slowly out of the apartment complex and back onto the main road, making his
way towards Sullivan Street .

Cobb looked out of the passenger side window at the groups of homeless men
and women underneath the bridges as they passed. Their faces were dirty, hair
greasy, a broken, beaten look in their eyes.

He thought back to the last summer he’d spent with his mother. He’d grown up
in a neighborhood not unlike this one. He didn’t remember exactly how it had
happened, but one day, his mother had come home from work telling him to pack
his things into his small backpack, and they’d left the apartment that had
been his home.

They had walked forever that day, him with his backpack, his mother with a
small blue suitcase. When evening fell, they had found shelter under a bridge
with others like themselves – others with nowhere else to go.

Cobb hadn’t liked it there at first. The cement was a hard, cold bed, and
the others there had smelled funny, but his mother had held him close, told
him that everything was going to be OK, and eventually he was able to fall
asleep.

Every day they followed the same routine – they’d get up, repack their
belongings, and walk around the city streets, looking for whatever they could
find. At first, his mother went into a few places looking for jobs. Cobb would
sit out in front of the store, patiently watching his backpack and the blue
suitcase, but every time his mother returned with a sad look on her face, and
they started walking again.

Eventually, his mother stopped looking for jobs and started looking for
food. Cobb was always hungry, and so their lives became a constant search for
sustenance. His mother would take his hand and they’d walk along the alleys,
looking in dumpsters for food or other things that might prove valuable in
trade to someone else.

This had been his life for that summer. Towards the end, his mother had
started leaving him under the bridge in the evening. She would return a few
hours later, often with new bruises, but the next morning, his mother would
pull out a small wad of crumpled cash, and they would go out and have a big
breakfast, with orange juice, eggs, and pancakes, and sometimes, they’d go to
the carwash and wash themselves with the hose. Those had been his favorite
days.

One day a policeman had stopped them on the street and had taken them to the
police station. He had sat on the bench with his mother fearfully clutching
her hand, and had cried incessantly when she said she had to go and he would
have a new family and a new life.

Social Services had placed him with a foster family, and he had gone back to
school. The foster family was nice enough, but all he had really wanted was
his mother. He hadn’t seen her since that day in the police station. He
wondered now, as he peered out on the dirty faces, if perhaps one of them was
her.

Abruptly, the car turned onto Sullivan Street and Cobb was drawn back into
reality.

“There it is, at the corner, on the right,” said Ames quietly as they
approached the St. Ives shelter. Cobb looked up at the large stone structure
looming in front of them. The white brick exterior was worn and caked with
city grime. The large orange neon cross above the entrance flickered “Jesus
Loves You.” A few grubby, coated figures sat on the large stairs, sharing a
cigarette between them.

Ames pulled up next to the entrance and parked the car. “Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Cobb pulled his jacket tighter around him as they exited
the car and walked towards the figures sitting on the stairs. They seemed to
have the right idea. He could really use a cigarette right now. He pulled one
from his pocket and lit it as he and Ames took the stairs towards the
entrance.

“Better not smoke that inside,” one of the figures on the stairs said as
they passed by. Cobb stopped and turned. “Why not?”

“Rhonda won’t like it. She doesn’t let us smoke inside. Why else you think
we’d be sittin’ out here? Shit, it’s warm in there.” The man gestured
towards St. Ives. The others sharing the cigarette laughed.

Cobb handed the cigarette to the man. “Well, I guess you guys can have this
one on me.”

“Thanks, officer,” the man responded, accepting Cobb’s offer.

“Is it that obvious?” Cobb asked, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Only cops move the way you two do,” the man responded, inhaling Cobb’s
cigarette slowly before passing it along to the next one in the small circle.

Cobb smiled. “Must be our police training.” A few men chuckled as he turned
and followed Ames into the large St. Ives vestibule.

“Sounds like Rhonda’s the one we want to talk to,” said Cobb as they hung
their coats on the rack in the corner. Ames murmured in agreement, and they
walked up the short staircase into the large dining hall. It was mostly empty,
except for one of two men sitting at distant tables, eating.

The only sounds seemed to be coming from a door at the far side of the room,
so they walked in that direction, aware of the strong smell of food wafting
more strongly as they approached.

“They say it’s warm in here?” Ames commented as they entered the doorway to
the kitchen. “Seems chilly to me.”

“Wal, you try heatin’ a big old place like dis wit what money we got!
‘Sides, it’s warmer than outside, and that’s warm enough for most folks here.”
Rhonda turned from the kitchen sink and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Are you Rhonda?” Ames asked, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Sho ‘nuff,” Rhonda replied. “And you must be cops. Only cops walk the way
you do. What can I do for you?”

Cobb interrupted, “Hi Rhonda, I’m Detective Cobb and this is my partner,
Detective Ames. I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but there were a couple of
men found earlier this morning, and one of them is dead. He appeared to be
homeless, so we were wondering if he’d have maybe come in here. We’re just
trying to find out who he is and how he got shot.”

“Shot? Well, dat’s a new one for one of my guys. Usually they do a pretty
good job of staying out o’ da way of guns. You got a picture?” Ames nodded,
reaching into his jacket pocket for the Polaroid.

“Ma’am, this is from the crime scene, so…”

“Just let me see it. I’ve seen worse, I’m sure.” Rhonda walked over,
accepted the picture, and inspected it with a frown on her face, shaking her
head.

“Yeah, this is Darryl. I don’t know his last name.” She shook her head
again. “Poor guy. Guys around here call him da Squeegee Man, on ‘ccount o’ his
always cleaning car windows down on State Ave. Last time he came in, he was
pretty beat up, but he didn’t seem to wanna talk about it. We don’t pressure
‘em ‘round here. He ate a bit, talked to Ernie once, but didn’t stay the
night. I hadn’t seem him since den.” She handed the picture back to Ames .

“Do you know anything more about him? Any reason you can think of that he
would have been shot?” Rhonda shook her head.

“No, Darryl was a nice guy, real friendly and he’d talk your ear off if you
let him. He was different last I saw him, though. Real quiet. Like I said, he
was beat up. I spect he got in front of that bullet by accident – he wasn’t
the kind to seek out trouble.”

“OK. You mentioned he talked to Ernie last time he was here. Who’s Ernie?”

Rhonda smiled. “He’s a reg’lar ‘round here. He’s not all right in the head,
but he’s a sweet boy. He didn’t have anything to do with this, I can tell you
dat. He used to talk to Darryl a lot; went out with him to State Ave. once.”

“Any idea where we can find him?”

“Wal, he usually goes down and hangs out with some kids around 34 th and
Broadway, but I doubt you’ll get much from him. Ernie can’t describe things
very well. His mind don’t work dat way. Tell you what, though, there’s a girl
that some of da guys talk about ‘round here. She works up at the Dominick’s
just up the street. Da guys say she’s real nice. I know Darryl knew her; Ernie
does too. She might know somethin’ more. Sometimes dey talk to other people
better – they don’t tell me too much. Now, I’ve gotta get the rest of this
food made, we’ll be having a large crowd here for lunch in a bit. ‘Scuse me.”
She brushed pas Ames and Cobb and rummaged around the counter.

“OK. Thanks a lot ma’am. If you hear anything just give us a call at the
station.” Rhonda nodded, and Cobb turned back and left the kitchen, Ames close
behind.

“You want to head over to the Dominick’s?” Ames asked.

“Might as well. Foster’s going to call us when the kid wakes up. Might as
well try to figure out why the homeless guy’s dead.”

Cobb pulled out another cigarette as they exited St. Ives. The men on the
stairs were gone.

“Maybe the kid was bein’ held up or something, and this Darryl guy went to
help him out. From what she said, he sounds like he might have done somethin’
like that,” Ames commented as he unlocked the doors. “Am I still driving?”

“Yeah.”

Ned felt uneasy as soon as Cobb and Ames entered the store. There was a
purposefulness in their walk that said they were on the job, they were looking
for someone; this was not just friendly stop for donuts and coffee.

Positioned at the register nearest to the entrance, he was their first stop.
They flashed a badge. “Police. Can you call the manager down for a second? We
need to speak with him.”

Ned nodded and walked to the intercom mounted on the support beam behind the
register. “Bob, please come to register one, Bob, to register one.” Bob was
the nearest thing to a manager today. He wasn’t the big man himself, but he
was in charge for the time being.

Ned returned to his position behind the register. “He’ll be right over.
Anything I can do for you gentlemen?”

Ames looked at Cobb for confirmation. “We’re looking for a girl that works
here, may be real friendly with the homeless guys that live around here.”

They were talking about Holly, no doubt. “This girl in some kind of
trouble?” Ned asked.

“Not at all. There was a homeless man that was murdered earlier this
morning, and we’re trying to identify him and figure out what happened. Rhonda
from St. Ives said this girl might know him.”

Ned was relieved. He had been concerned as soon as they had mentioned Holly.
He knew she’d had her run-ins with law enforcement before, but she was a good
kid – he didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. It looked like the police
officers just needed information.

“Yeah, she was probably talking about Holly. She works here. She knows a lot
of the guys that live around here. I go out with her and talk to them every
once in awhile. Maybe I can help you out.”

Ames had already taken the Polaroid out of his pocket and thrust it into
Ned’s hand. He peered into it. It was a grisly photograph – the man in it was
obviously dead.

“Yeah, Holly’s talked to him a couple of times. He’s stopped by when she
brings pizza or hot chocolate or something, but I don’t know if she knows
anything more than what he does and where he works – on the street, I mean.
None of these guys have real jobs.” He handed the photo back to Ames .

“Tell you what, I think Holly just took a break. She might be out back
smoking or something. I can take you out there if you’d like.” He wanted to be
there when they talked to her – he could keep an eye on things and make sure
they hadn’t been lying to him about why they wanted to talk to her.

Bob approached from the back of the store, smile pasted on his pale face as
always. “Hey Ned, you called? What do you need?”

Cobb spoke up before Ned had a chance to answer. “Well, your employee here
has been kind enough to help us out. We’ll let you know if you need anything
else.” He flashed his badge again. A confused expression clouded Bob’s face,
but he replaced it quickly with his award-winning smile and nodded.

Ned grinned to himself. It was satisfying to see the cops put Bob is his
place. Bob was too used to having things under his control, to being the
ultimate decision maker. But the cops didn’t even give him a second glance as
Ned led them to the back of the store.

As Ned had expected, Holly was standing outside in the back parking lot, a
lit cigarette between her lips. She smiled as Ned and the cops joined her on
the sidewalk. Cobb lit another cigarette and smoked while Ames explained the
situation.

Holly’s eyes teared upon inspection of the Polaroid. “Yeah, this is Darryl.
He’s really friendly. Such a great guy.” She cried harder, and Ned put his arm
around her.

“I’m sorry ma’am. Do you happen to know anyone who would have wanted to kill
him?”

Holly nodded, still crying softly. “Oh no, not at all. I mean, every once in
awhile somebody’d get huffy with him for cleaning their windshield, but Darryl
just let it go. I can’t imagine him doing anything to anyone that’d make them
want to kill him.”

Ames looked at Cobb, who signaled their departure by flicking his half-
finished cigarette to the ground. “Thank you, ma’am. And again, we’re sorry.”
The detectives made their way towards the back entrance to the store.

“Wait!” Holly called softly. She ran up, tears still in her eyes. “Some of
the guys have been talking lately about something. Something that has them all
scared. They were saying that sometimes, one guy disappears for a night, then
shows up the next day all bruised and beat up. It happened to Darryl one time.
I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t tell me what had happened.
But everybody seems nervous about it these days. Even the homeless guys try to
stay in pairs now, just to be safer. Maybe it has something to do with that, I
don’t know.”

Ames and Cobb thanked her again and continued on into the store. Holly was
still crying as Ned put his arm around her again.

**Chapter 13: Beat Down **

Mike’s vision focused slowly as he stormed into the room, yelling wildly.
His own voice was soon drowned out by Marie, shrieking maniacally at the top
of her lungs, and by that of a man as he jumped free from his position on top
of her and rolled off the side of the bed.

Marie clutched the sheets around her naked body and continued to shriek on
the bed, a fearful look in her eyes. Mike’s hands were still tightly grasping
the bat, and he ignored her screaming as he scanned the room for the man. He
moved around to the left side of the bed, where the man was cowering next to
the night table, holding his hands in front of his nude, trembling body in an
attempt to shield himself.

Well, this was an interesting development. He glanced around the room in an
effort to discredit the conclusion he already knew to be true. The room was in
perfect condition, just like the rest of the house; no, Marie had let this
bastard into the house.

Marie regained her composure to some degree and shouted, both in fear and
anger, “Mike, what the hell are you doing?”

Mike’s mission now seemed clear. His job was gone, Angelo was going to kill
him, and Marie was cheating on him; with this pasty-faced bastard, no less. He
couldn’t do anything about the job or Angelo, but he’d be damned if he was
going to let her get away with this. She was going to pay.

The weakness he’d been feeling on his trip home was now fading, replaced by
the familiar rage that fueled all his best work. He was starting to feel
normal again – in control. But this time was going to be different. He wasn’t
going to stomp around, screaming vulgarities and throwing things around the
room. This time he was going to do it fucking right.

Mike glanced back at Marie, a strange stillness in his eyes. He replied
icily, eyes staring blankly into the distance, “I’m fuckin’ killing your
boyfriend, that’s what I’m doing.”

He swung the bat down forcefully, striking the pale, sweating man on the
left side. His arm crumpled as he cried out in pain. He scrambled towards the
bed, looking for shelter, but Mike bent down, grabbed his ankle, and pulled
him out one handed. With his other hand he swung the bat again, hitting his
target just between the shoulder blades.

The man gasped, then went limp, and Mike struck again, with both hands this
time. The man’s body was unresponsive, and in his subconscious Mike realized
that he was either dead or knocked out, but the beating continued.

Marie jumped from the bed onto his back, screaming nonsensically at him and
pounding weakly at him with her fists. The man groaned unexpectedly and Mike
smiled inwardly at the realization that he wasn’t dead yet. The beating
could continue.

He grabbed Marie’s arm and swung her off his shoulder, then clutched her
towards him and threw her hard towards the left closet door. She smashed
awkwardly into the full-length mirror there, sending fireworks of sunlight
from the early afternoon sun around the room, and landed in a heap of broken
glass, broken skin, and tears.

Mike smiled at her. “That’s right, bitch,” he spoke smoothly, resuming his
swings with the bat. The man was now in a fetal position below him, moaning
softly. Bruises had already started to form on his legs and back, and his
disfigured arm gushed blood where white bone jutted incongruently out of his
pasty skin.

Mike pounded on him mercilessly with the bat, paying special attention to
his broken arm and now purple back, then abruptly dropped to his knees and
continued with his own fists, focusing on the face and neck. His own blood
mixed with the man’s as the cuts on his knuckles reopened. He raised his hand
for another blow, and without warning, stopped short, instead grabbing the bat
again and standing slowly up.

The tip of the bat was smeared a dark crimson now, and flecks of a similar
color dotted the sheets and bed surrounding the crumpled body of the man. Mike
smiled coldly, satisfied with his work. He looked over at Marie, where small
rivulets of her own blood ran along the glass pathways on the clean hardwood
floor, fueled by constant drops from fresh cuts on her back, legs and
buttocks. She caught his cold stare from behind a shroud of matted, blood-
flecked hair.

Mike turned and threw the bat at her feet. Its noisy clatter was drowned out
by her own surprised shriek, and she scrambled away quickly, leaving a broad
swath of crimson in her path.

Mike reached down and picked up the telephone on the night table, throwing
it at her. “You’d better call 911, Marie. I think your boyfriend needs to see
a doctor.” With that, he turned and strode quickly out of the room, down the
stairs, and into the kitchen.

He stopped at the sink, running cold water over his own wounded hands. The
white of his own knuckles shone through as the blood washed away. He saw
Marie’s purse in it’s customary position on the kitchen counter, and he swung
it over his shoulder as he walked to the garage.

Marie wouldn’t be needed her SUV – he might as well take it. It was really
his anyway, he’d paid for it. The angry adrenaline surged pleasantly through
him as he pressed the garage door button. Sunlight streamed brightly into the
dark garage as the door opened. What a beautiful day, he thought. He pulled
out slowly onto the street, and continued on through the path of finely
manicured lawns, stone yard fountains, and hedge art. It was time to go see
Angelo.